Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 313 - 308: The Crown

Before Gabriel could say anything else, the doors on the far side of the hall opened, and the guards straightened their stance, even though it was perfect before. He turned to face Damian, but all he saw was the Emperor, not his mate or Damian, the man who matched his sarcasm and drama.

The crown was something out of nightmares, blackened gold with each jagged spike rising like the teeth of a fallen god. Embedded between the iron-like ridges, crimson gems pulsed like frozen blood, sharp-cut and unforgiving, as if they remembered every ruler who had dared wear them.

Gabriel greeted him with perfect courtesy, even though his mind had left the room. He had seen and touched that crown before, and he remembered its weight and jagged surface in his hands as he walked through fire, blood, and ether so unstable that it drummed in his chest.

But the image fractured before it reached clarity, and the memory slipped back behind the wall again.

Damian reached his hand to him, watching with the gaze of an Emperor waiting for his consort to complete his expected duties.

Gabriel reached and placed his hand in that of the Emperor, turning together to the double doors.

They opened slowly, the light of early afternoon washing in through the high arches, gilding the edge of Gabriel’s coat and catching on the crimson embroidery of Damian’s mantle. The roar of the crowd met them like a wave contained only by formality. Their names had already been announced. The Empire was already watching.

Gabriel’s heart beat faster at the sight before him, blood pounding in his ears, drowning the voices for a moment in a steady, rising hum. He couldn’t breathe the same way; he didn’t know if it was the light, the crowd, the memory trying to rise, or the silence just before something broke.

Damian’s hand tightened around his.

And without a word, Damian led him forward.

They stepped onto the balcony as one. The Empire below—nobles, soldiers, officials, and envoys—rose to their feet like a single, coordinated breath. The sound of them doing so was deafening in its discipline.

Gabriel’s polished shoes hit the stone with the precision of ritual, but his eyes kept scanning the crowd, the flags, and the line of chained silence where Patricia waited in the center. Not restrained by soldiers, but by ether alone. Mouth sealed. Body broken and as the last offense, she was dressed in the same dress she was arrested in.

A symbol of treason undone in paisian blue.

The wind caught Gabriel’s coat, pushed against his throat, and the sound in his ears shifted again, no longer a pulse.

Damian raised his free hand. The fabric of his robe moved with the wind, heavy and deliberate, the crimson lining catching the light like fresh blood on polished steel. He didn’t address the crowd or Patricia, who was almost in the fetal position, her mind so destroyed that it barely kept her body from falling.

The gesture was enough—precise, minimal, and final. A single flick of authority. The herald stepped forward without hesitation, voice ringing clear across the stonework and crowd.

"By decree of the Emperor, under sovereign law and in full witness of the Empire—Patricia of House Duarte stands condemned. For conspiracy against the Throne, for the fabrication and distribution of ether-bound illusions with intent to defame and destabilize the imperial household, for sedition, and for the deliberate manipulation of public trust. Her titles are revoked. Her name was struck from the registers of nobility. By law, she is to be erased from all future records, and this sentence is to be carried out without appeal. Let it be known—any individual found to have aided, concealed, or conspired alongside Patricia Duarte shall face the same judgment. This sentence bears the Emperor’s full authority and will stand as precedent for all who would attempt to undermine the Crown."

The moment the herald finished, two shadows appeared—silent, precise, and dressed in full ceremonial attire. Black robes fell to their heels, layered over light gear that moved like armor and glinted with ether-bound runes at every shift of muscle.

Imperial elite.

The crowd stilled. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

Breathless. Watching.

They had only been seen once before—in the same formation, in the same black—on the day Damian took the throne.

The Empire remembered that day and everyone got the message Damian was sending. They could be in Patricia’s place anytime and the Emperor won’t care who he gutters for his mate’s sake.

The Shadows moved with eerie silence, their steps unnaturally fluid, robes splitting just enough to reveal blades etched with imperial sigils and humming faintly with contained ether. One stood behind Patricia. The other to the side.

The execution itself took less than a breath.

A flash of light—not bright, not theatrical, just enough to sever both ether and bone. Her body dropped, collapsed in on itself like a marionette with cut strings. There was no scream. Her mouth was still sealed by the spell placed upon her days ago. Just the dull sound of knees against stone and then silence.

The chains vanished. Her presence didn’t linger.

One of the Shadows stepped forward, held out a scroll, and set it aflame before the crowd. The official record of Patricia Duarte—burned in public, as was tradition for those who committed high treason. The fire left no ash, only the smell of burned parchment and the distinct whisper of something being unmade. The entire Duarte house was being wiped out until sunset.

Then they bowed—to the Emperor, the Consort, and no one else—and vanished, just as they had arrived.

Not a single person in the crowd spoke. Not the generals. Not the foreign envoys. Not the old nobles with legacy blood or the merchants with new fortunes. They had all risen when Damian and Gabriel appeared, but now, not one dared move until the Emperor gave permission.

Broadcast drones floated overhead, silent and precise, capturing every angle. The execution would be broadcast across all imperial territories by dusk. Edited for clarity. Preserved for history. Etched into the memory of every citizen as a reminder.

The Consort had not spoken. Had not looked away.

He stood beside the crowned Emperor, calm as a blade left unsheathed on a royal desk.

And all of them, everyone watching, knew exactly who the warning was for.